An army anecdote
by Rephis
Summary: Told from a point of view of someone who had no idea who he was, his story was just a sad anecdote, just another proof that happy endings are not a common thing in the real world. There's only so much one can take before finally breaking and becoming someone completely different, even if a part of them is still there. Post Reichenbach, no slash, no romance.


_This is not a happy story and there's a lot of swearing, but I dare to say that it might interest you. At least I hope it will. _

_If it feels concise, quick and lacking, that's because it is. I wrote it on an impulse, and I think I'll end up hating it, but I decided to post it anyway. Enjoy?_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

* * *

My ears were still ringing with the furious husky voice. I stole a quick glance at Thompson, who was doing his best to look ashamed, though it was obvious that he was barely restraining himself. Soon, the four of us were dismissed with a colourful bunch of curses and insults. The moment we were out of hearing range, Thompson erupted in giggles. I must admit that even though I always mocked him about how girly he sounded, I actually found it quite endearing.

"I swear, one more fit like this and dear major's poor heart will just give up. I could fucking hear it! Did you see how purple he was?" Thompson panted between giggles.

"One jumpy motherfucker he is," Lennox added, giving Thompson a playful pat on the shoulder. "It's a bloody miracle he still hasn't had a heart attack or something."

"Yeah. As long as he doesn't get one on an action, I wouldn't really mind."

"I know, right?"

I remained silent as they berated the major. I couldn't really blame them; it wasn't like I was much of a fan of him either. He was a good leader, but not a loved one; he was operative, and that was what mattered. However, his story was stopping me from dismissing him just as a harsh old soldier. Hell, he wasn't even much older than me; at least not when it came to age.

Thompson, Lennox and Benett left to play football. They invited me as well, but my refusal wasn't a surprise. I sat on one of the benches and observed them, letting my thoughts drift away to the day I first heard of the infamous major. It was shortly after we had been stationed, when one of the sergeants serving under him took us aside to explain how things worked here.

"Listen, lads," he started in an unfittingly bland voice. "Whatever they told you about this place, you can throw it out of the window. It's bullshit. They force-fed you it, so that you would make efficient cannon fodder. Now . . . "

Politely, I pretended I was listening. It was no news for me, for it wasn't my first time on the frontlines. I only registered the bits of information that might have proven to come in handy, instead of just telling me how fucked I was. That was when I learnt of that arsehole of a major, who was basically ruling the place. The sergeant whose name I don't even remember didn't give us any details; he just told us to stay out the major's way.

Some time later, I cornered the older soldier to demand more background information on the major, for I somehow sensed that he had a story behind himself. I wasn't wrong.

"Ah, right. I'm not certain if what they say is true, but he wasn't like _this_ before," the sergeant finally answered my nagging, scratching his stubble thoughtfully.

"What do you mean? It's hard to imagine him different than he is, to be honest." Right after I said that, I cursed myself inwardly. I was always making myself sound even more stupid than I was, but the sergeant didn't seem to mind.

"I heard that he used to be a rather nice bloke," he continued. "He served in Afghanistan a few years ago, and was generally liked from what I know. He was a field medic or something. "

I blinked, slightly surprised. The callous major, a doctor?

"Anyway, he got shot, and was sent back to London shortly after. There was a gossip that he, um . . . had a hard time readjusting, and his family wasn't too helpful."

I almost smirked. Not at the story, but at the sergeant's trite way of saying the word considered a tabu between soldiers. 'PTSD!', I wanted to yell in his face, for I wasn't fond of dancing around the subject. It apparently wasn't the case, however, since the major was allowed to return to active duty, so I kept my mouth shut.

The sergeant resumed speaking. "Here starts the part I'm not too willing to believe, but it's the only version I have. They say that he met some detective or someone like that, and they teamed up to fight crime together!" The last sentence ended with a laugh. I said nothing, just squinted a little. The story rang a bell in my head, but I couldn't place it.

"Then, um . . . ah, right! Then that detective guy turned out be a impostor, and killed himself. I don't know the details."

My eyes widened ever so slightly as I finally remembered the story from the papers. It happened while I was on my first tour in Iraq, so I didn't know much aside from what the media said, and I was never one to pay much attention to the 'information' they provided. Besides, after my return I had more important things to worry about than some scandal in a country a thousand miles away.

I nodded and made a noise that the sergeant interpreted as an encouragement to keep talking.

"Anyway, after that, people started accusing him too. He was never charged with anything, but if any of this is true, I bet it was a bloody nightmare. Then, it only got worse."

I held my breath, despising myself for getting excited for an apparently unhappy ending.

"He met a girl and got married, but she died not half a year after. Both she and his sister did, in fact – they had an accident of some sort. Again, I don't know the details."

I lowered my eyes and nodded again. The excitement turned into a rather unpleasant weight in my stomach, but I quickly gathered myself. There was no reason to get emotional. It never helped, sentiment.

The sergeant cleared his throat. "So, everyone says that was the thing that did it. He had no reason to stay, so he went back here. And damn me, I would even feel sorry for him if he wasn't such an obnoxious bastard." He sighed and clapped his hands on his thighs. "Okay, mate. I gotta go now. Some of us have work to do."

I watched him leave, by my thoughts were elsewhere. By that time I hadn't yet tasted the wrath of major Watson, so my view of his person was purely hypothetical. I thought, 'Hey, he can't be that bad! And even if he is, it's understandable. He's been through some nasty business, so he has the right to be a dick sometimes.' That was until I got to meet him for the first time. He appeared out of nowhere to torment us on a morning exercise.

"What the fuck is this? You're calling yourselves soldiers, you pathetic morons?!" he thundered. He had quite a big voice for such a small fellow. "I'm not going to teach how to stand straight! I swear, if you don't start taking this seriously, you'll be running around the camp until you won't have the strength to move a fucking finger!"

No-one risked making a sound. He might have been a head shorter than the majority of us, but everyone automatically knew that it was necessary to respect him. Well, at least as long as he could see or hear us.

Watson folded his hands behind his back and started walking back and forth in front of the row, assessing every face. His eyes stopped on a few of us a bit longer. Then he saw Thompson, and it was obvious he immediately disliked something about him.

"You! What's your name, private?" the major growled, standing mere inches in front of him.

"Thompson, sir!"

"Do you know why you're here, Thompson?"

"I'm here to fight in the name of Her Majesty, the Queen of England, sir!"

I hoped that major Watson was going to drop it upon receiving the most politically correct and generic answer. I was even proud of Thompson for managing to pull it off. The major, however, wasn't satisfied.

"Don't fuck with me, soldier. I can tell when someone's here for Her Majesty, and you're definitely not!" Who would guess that features as soft as those of the major could look fierce enough to baffle a carefree man like Thompson?

"S-sir?" Thompson uttered dumbly, only enraging Watson further. The major stepped away from him, clenching his jaw, and addressed all of us.

"Among all of you, I see maybe three soldiers. The rest of you pathetic cunts came here on a whim of shooting some fuckers and then going back home to your loving families. You're just a bunch of trigger-happy morons who think this is going to be fucking fun!" he spat, gesticulating wildly. "But I swear to you, as long I have a say in this, none of you are going to enjoy a single moment in this place! You're not here for entertainment, you're here to do what you're told and even God will not help you if you don't. Is that clear?!"

"Yes, sir!" we called.

For me, as well as for most others, it was nothing more than bitter prating. I tried to imagine major Watson as a bland doctor, patient assistant or loving husband, but it was rather difficult. His story was always somewhere in the back of my head, but what mattered was how he was for me and my fellow soldiers, not for people I didn't even know. Still, I couldn't hate him, and I must admit that he was doing a pretty good job at making us understand what we have gotten ourselves into. Even Thompson and other triflers of his sort have come to treating the situation more seriously, though they always claimed it had nothing to do with the cranky major's tirades.

The old, dirty ball flew mere inches past my head, snapping me out of my reverie. I heard Thompson's hearty laugh and a colourful insult of my reflexes, and I answered in kind, already cheered up, and quickly forgot about major Watson.

After that day, I didn't have time to spare much thought on him. I partook in two missions, and they were my focus. The second mission was two weeks long, and after we returned to the base, I immediately noticed something different. It seemed to be lacking discipline, and I began to wonder how come major Watson allowed this to happen. Everyone was tense and nervous about something. It didn't take long to find out what was the cause.

"Listen, lads. We have a bit of situation here," one of the captains addressed all of us shortly after our arrival. "One of the teams has been taken hostage during a mission. The superiors are trying to negotiate with the fuckers who took them, but it's not going well, and major Watson is bloody pissed off about it. So, for your own safety, stay the fuck out his way."

We agreed eagerly. Any excuse to avoid the major was a good one. We felt sorry for the boys, but truth was that most of us were just glad it wasn't us who'd been taken. We all knew how situations like this ended in most cases. Apparently, so did major Watson.

One day, I saw him in one of the tents, scribbling something in hurry, muttering to himself as he did so. Instinctively, I hid behind another tent; I was told not to come in his way no matter what, after all. I couldn't hear him well, but I think I caught a few names. I wondered whose names they could be, as he supposedly had no-one waiting for him.

That was the last time I saw him. We never even talked, and I can't say I liked him, but I must admit that once he was gone, I kind of missed him. I never found out who the letters were addressed to, or whose names he had whispered that day.

As I watched him leave the tent and march away, I had no idea what he was up to. It later transpired that he had enough of waiting for the uppers to make a decision, and with a small team he went to search for the missing lads himself. Everyone was shocked by his decision, but it soon became clear that it was the only thing that could have saved the poor sods, for the superiors had more or less written them off.

The major's team and the hostages returned a week after the rescue mission set off. All but three men were back safely. The three – well, they returned as well, but in plastic bags. Major Watson was among them.

It was quite a scandal, but eventually he even got himself some decorations. The opinions on his last act were divided – some said it was rash and irresponsible, others claimed it was only right. I'm still not sure what I think, but it doesn't matter.

Two weeks after major Watson's death, Thompson and I were enjoying an unusually calm evening at the base. Thompson raised his glass and looked through it at the setting Sun.

"You know what, Timmy? I never thought I would say this, but I miss the bastard. Watson, I mean."

I chuckled, seating myself a bit more comfortably. "So do I. He was no sweetheart, but he knew what he was doing." I knew a moment like this would come eventually, and I actually welcomed it. It felt right to speak out; it was a way of saying goodbye.

"Yeah. Knocked some sense into our daft brains. If it weren't for him, most of us would probably be dead by now."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far, but I guess you have a point," I said, assessing him curiously. He changed. Whether it was under the influence of major Watson, or simply from getting a clear look at what war was, I don't know. Perhaps it was both.

He hummed, staring into the distance for a moment and then turned to me again, raising his glass towards mine.

"To major John Watson. The most annoying and bitter little bastard we've come to meet."

"To a good man," I said, and clinked my glass with his.

After that toast, I did my best not to think of the major often. Somehow, I always felt that thinking of the dead too much was bringing me closer to them than I ever wished to be. It doesn't mean I have forgotten about him or other fallen ones, of course, but they were no longer a part of my story.

* * *

_I warned you. I guess._

_I would be very grateful for reviews! It was interesting to write this, and I'm very curious how it felt to read it. Share your thoughts, good people of FanFiction! Comments do wonders to encourage a greenhorn writer like me._


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